Agapao Aionios
by cmaddict
Summary: MacStella, a 9/11 tribute. Even eight years later, life must go on, because wallowing in grief is worse than death.


**Disclaimer: **I'm just a poor college student. I don't own any of the characters you recognize. Nor do I own the Greek gods and goddesses mentioned here.

**Notes:** Okay, so I know that today is September 16, not September 11. Unfortunately, school is crazy right now, and I didn't have much time last week to write this. But I really wanted to, so I finally finished it and figured better late than never. I don't think there's anyone that wasn't affected by what happened on 9/11, and I still remember exactly where I was on that day. This is a very inadequate attempt at describing what happened on a day that will live in infamy, to borrow from FDR. I hope you're moved by it, I hope you enjoy it, and I hope that you'll never forget the lives lost that day.

**Many thousands of thanks** to _Balletmaus_ and _Lily Moonlight_ for the encouragement, the read through, and the discussion. I appreciate more than I could ever say.

* * *

**Agapao Aionios**

Morning rises victorious over the obstinate twilight. Eos, ancient goddess of the dawn, ascends her throne and stretches her fingers to pull back the dark curtain of night. Her brother Helios wakes his fiery horses, spurring them to run the course laid for them at the beginning of time. His flaming chariot chases the night as far as the horizon, streaking red and violet and pink across the sky in a brilliant display of color as his brilliance hides the silvery face of their sister Selene, goddess of the moon. Before her brother's chariot fully ascends into the sky, Eos, beautiful titan of the dawn, surveys the world of humanity below her.

Her gaze falls on one man, trudging through busy city streets. He is alone, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his light jacket. His blue-eyed gaze is cast to the dirty concrete beneath his feet, and his broad shoulders slump with the weight of some unspoken sorrow. A sorrow connected with the dawn of this day in particular. What it is, she doesn't quite know.

The cool September breeze sweeps through the alleys, whispering through his short dark hair. He walks slowly, footfalls heavy, as if it takes all his strength just to lift them. He ignores the bustling, humming throng of people around him, hurrying to their daily tasks, and they ignore him too. He's fine with that. He'd rather be alone today anyway.

As he rounds the corner, his gaze lifts from the sidewalk to the empty space above him. Only it wasn't always empty. He remembers a time when steel and glass stood tall and proud over the city, a symbol of the success and power of America. Two towers, both identical, guarding Manhattan like sentries, strong and dominating and intimidating.

But eight years ago today, two planes cut deep into the side of those sentries in a death blow no one saw coming. Fire erupted from the gaping holes in the sides of the buildings, great clouds of smoke and ash billowing from the gigantic lacerations in their flesh. Then... oh, then... then came a great rumbling like a freight train weighted down with cargo. Then came the creaking, and the shattering of glass and buckling of steel. And the sentries, once so proud and so tall, imploded, crumbling slowly to the ground, ash and glass and paper and steel crashing to the earth.

Now, eight years later, all that is left of those great giants is a deep crater in the earth. A painful, festering scar on the nation and his own heart, never fully healed.

He stops before the towering fence separating him from the construction site. People pass by him constantly, chattering on phones or absorbed in their PDA's. Life goes on for them like it always had. Though no New Yorker, no American, remained unaffected by September 11, 2001, life carries on. Jobs have to be completed, families have to be provided for, money has to be made. Despite the grief, life goes on.

Placing one hand on the chain-link fence, he leans against it, head bowed, tuning out the noise of the traffic behind him. Slowly he inhales, drawing the cool air into his lungs as best he can, for now as he draws close to the site it seems like some great weight is sitting on his chest. It has become a normal feeling for him these past eight years, that inexplicable, completely overwhelming grief that comes when a dearly beloved one is stolen away in a matter of seconds. That sensation of utter helplessness, of sorrow so deep it can't be expressed.

Softly, slowly he blows the breath out. "Claire," he murmurs tenderly. Her name tumbles from his lips, familiar yet oddly painful, sweet yet bitter.

They had a happy life here in New York after he returned from Beirut and joined the police force. He had loved her from the moment he saw her, that warm April day, with her deep blue eyes and crooked smile and effervescent laugh. Once, he asked her why she'd said yes to him in the first place. She just looked at him with those sparkling blue eyes and said, _"Because I chose you, Mac."_

Somehow that was enough, and he never asked her again. Their life was happy, and their future lay before them, bright and hopeful. Occasionally they tossed around the idea of children, but he wasn't ready to take that step, afraid he wouldn't quite measure up to what she thought a good father should be. He always told himself that they would have plenty of time for children.

But then came that fateful day: a day that would live in infamy alongside December 7, 1941. The memory burns itself in his mind's eye. Seated at the breakfast table, he lifted his face for her to kiss his lips. Ordinarily she left later, but, as she explained it, she had an early morning meeting with one of the executives in her division at the financial firm and she couldn't be late. So they kissed each other goodbye just like always, and just like always, he went to the lab and she went to the Trade Towers.

Not three hours later, he heard the low rumble of a plane passing overhead, but he thought nothing of it. Planes flew low all the time.

His heart seizes at the memory and his hand grips the steel tighter. "I miss you, Claire," he whispers into the silence. God, he misses her so much. Her smile, her laugh. The scent of the perfume she wore on special occasions. The way she snuggled against him when they watched the news together, how she fit perfectly into his side. So fragile, yet so beautiful.

He remembers entering the break room, where all his colleagues hovered around the television. He'd heard about it from the city dispatcher, seen the smoke blanketing the sky over Manhattan, but he didn't quite believe it until he saw it there. Some wept. Some swore. All he could do was stare at the screen in disbelief and horror, eyes drinking in the smoke billowing from the side of the buildings but mind not quite comprehending what was happening. _Claire's in there_ was his first thought.

He recalls seeing a familiar face out of the corner of his eye, looking at him with a concerned expression furrowing her brow and tears in her emerald green eyes. He shifted his gaze to her, seeing her lips form his name. _"Mac?"_

_"Claire."_ His voice then sounded as choked as it does now.

He watched for hours. He could see people climbing onto the ledges, knowing that was their only chance of escaping the inferno within. Every once in a while he stole glances at Stella. Tears streaked her beautiful face, and she clutched her hands to her chest. But there was one time he looked back at the television screen, and the first tower simply crumbled, slowly toppling to the ground below. And his heart stopped, right then and there.

A warm, soft hand gripped his arm, and he glanced down to Stella's pained expression. He saw her lips move again, but he heard no sound. Just a pounding on his eardrums, loud and mocking, like time ticking away, telling him that he could do absolutely nothing. A feeling of utter despair and helplessness assaulted him from nowhere. And then his knees buckled and her grip on his arm tightened as she pulled him to her chest. He could feel her hand stroke his hair gently, and a warm drop of liquid landed on his cheek. Only later did he realize that it was a teardrop, that she was crying for Claire and for him and for everyone else lost on that day.

Consumed by his anger and grief and helplessness, he shrugged her off and hid himself in his office, vainly trying to reach someone that knew where Claire was, but the cell towers were down. Frustrated, he stalked to the elevator, punching the button for the ground floor so hard the plastic shield cracked. Amidst the pounding in his head, he heard the quick staccato clicks of Stella's heels against the dirty linoleum.

_"Where are you going?"_ she asked.

_"Don't try to stop me, Stella."_ Even to his ears, his voice was low, dangerous. He would find his wife if it took him forever.

_"Mac, there's nothing you can do. You go down there, you'll die too!"_

_"Then let me die!"_ he snarled, and her green eyes widened in shock and fear. She even took a step back, as if she were afraid he would strike her. _"I'd rather die than live without her!"_

Hades stole her that day, along with more than three thousand other innocent lives. Whisked away, leaving their loved ones behind to wonder why and how.

Taking another deep breath, he rests his forehead on the fence. Eight years later, he's still here and she's not. For a while he hoped that she was actually alive, that she would find her way back to him. But a year passed, then two, then three, and she never came back. Eventually he realized she never would, and hope waned. He would have to continue without her. Without his beloved Claire.

It has taken him a long time to get used to that thought, but life goes on, no matter the tragedy. Grief must be in the past.

And that's the most painful lesson he's learned during these eight years. Even without her, life continues. It has to, because wallowing in grief is worse than death. Life is finding happiness even in the loss, finding joy in what remains rather than focusing on what is gone. And joy is happiness and contentment despite the circumstances. Truthfully, even without Claire, he knows he has a good life. He has a fulfilling job, friends closer than family, a city to protect.

And now... now...

"Claire," he whispers softly, "you know I love you. I always have and I always will. And... I think you would want me to find some kind of joy in life, even if you're not here to share it with me."

Gently a breeze brushes against his face, caressing his cheek, and though he knows it's scientifically impossible, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, she's heard him. Maybe she wants him to be happy, wants him to let go and live.

"I'll never forget you, sweetheart. As long as I live, I'll never forget you." His voice cracks just a little with long pent-up emotion, and the breeze whispers across his cheek again, stronger this time.

He knows.

It's time. Eight years have gone by, and it's time for grief to be in the past.

"I love you," he says again.

Slowly he straightens, shoves his hands into his pockets, and with one last glance behind him, continues down the street. Helios' chariot has climbed higher into the sky, and the light of Apollo warms his face. Halfway to his destination, he realizes that his footsteps have lightened considerably, that the weight on his chest has lifted somewhat. The corners of his mouth tug into a half-smile, and his pace quickens.

It seems like mere seconds before he sees the familiar outline of his apartment building. Nodding a greeting at the doorman, he forgoes the elevator for the stairs. Long legs take them two at a time until he reaches his floor. He yanks open the door in one swift motion and strides down the hall to his apartment door. Keys jangle musically as he fits one into the door lock, and the wooden door swings open silently.

His apartment is silent and still, just as he left it. Shutting the door behind him, he tosses the keys onto the kitchen table and sheds his jacket, throwing it on the back of the couch. With his characteristically long steps, he crosses to the closed door on the opposite side of the living room. As quietly as a mouse, he turns the doorknob and opens the door.

Sunlight filters through the translucent cream-colored curtains, its beams alighting on the sleeping form in the bed. Dark curls glow caramel and olive-toned skin shimmers radiantly in the morning light.

His rock. His strength.

He wouldn't have made it through that day eight years ago if she hadn't been there.

He remembers the reverberating ding of the elevator, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from hers. The air around them was charged with his fury and emotion, his words hanging in the air, words that he now regrets because he would never really want to die. A thick silence settled over them as they stared at each other, neither quite knowing what to say next. But suddenly and without warning, he felt his heart snap, and he broke. Hot, angry tears streamed down his face, and she quickly pulled him into an abandoned hallway, away from curious onlookers and prying eyes. There he collapsed to his knees, his head in his hands. The strong, tough Marine had been broken, destroyed. His life was gone, crushed with thousands of tons of steel and ash, and everything he'd ever cared about disappeared in an instant.

Then he felt a pair of soft hands on his face and a gentle arm around his shoulders, and he buried his face in her hair, quietly weeping. She held him wordlessly, alternating between stroking his hair and rubbing his shoulders, allowing him to mourn without interruption, never holding his words against him.

And this time, he didn't shrug her off.

Two days later, she stood by his side at the memorial, his hand clutching hers, silently offering her abundant strength. Together they listened with the thousands of other families who lost loved ones as the priest talked about grief and life and death, and she walked with him to the area around Ground Zero so he could say goodbye.

Good days and bad days followed, and she was there for all of it. She came over to his apartment with food regularly. When she saw him slipping into workaholic tendencies, throwing himself into his work rather than dealing with his grief, she dragged him out of the building and refused to let him back in until he went home to get some sleep. She covered for him at work when his grief overwhelmed him, and she pestered him constantly for sleep. Her strength and friendship always puzzled him. He tried to push her away, and she kept coming back. He ranted and yelled, and she listened patiently. He sobbed, and she held him. For an eternity, he couldn't figure out _why_.

She stirs just a little, interrupting his thoughts on the past, and his smile widens. He leans against the door frame, watching her nose wrinkle and her eyes flutter. Here is the dichotomy that is Stella Bonasera… immense emotional strength coupled with a tender fragility that is latent until she sleeps.

And she's beautiful when she sleeps. Like a mythical goddess incarnate. Not an Aphrodite or an Artemis. She's too loyal, too strong to be an Aphrodite, and she doesn't particularly care for animals. Not jealous like a Hera, always spying on her lover to ensure his fidelity. She's beautiful in other ways. She's an Athena: wise, strong, faithful, generous. She _inspires_ fidelity in those she cares for instead of demanding it.

Now he understands _why_ she kept coming back when he pushed her away, _why_ she held him. It's who she is.

_She _is why his grief is in the past.

He supposes that such an epiphany was inevitable, as were the results. As of now, she's been more than a friend to him for three months and sharing his bed for a little more than one, the outcome of a difficult case that made him realize how much he needs her, how much he wants her. The morning after their first time together, he knew that this was different, this was special. Being with her was uncomplicated, almost natural. So natural he wanted that step with her again and again, and though she'd never said those words, he knew she did too.

But while he cared for her immensely, more than anyone else in this world, something restrained him, especially after that first night.

But now… Now…

Tiptoeing cautiously, he steps forward to the empty side. The bed dips as he sits down beside her. His hand, as if drawn by some magnetic force, reaches over to her forehead, brushing back a stray curl and tenderly caressing her cheek.

She sighs almost inaudibly, and her eyes flutter open, the deep green irises soft with sleep. Her gaze lands on him, and a smile just touches the corner of her mouth. And he can't stop a smile of his own.

"Good morning, Stella," he whispers.

Humming, she stretches her long limbs, eyes closing again. "Morning." Her eyelids open again, and she sleepily looks him up and down before her brow furrows. "You're dressed."

His smile widens, and he nods. "Yeah. I had somewhere to go today."

Comprehension flashes across her face, and he knows she has remembered what day it is. "Mac, I…"

Quickly he places a finger over her mouth, effectively shushing her. "I need to tell you something, Stel." His finger still on her lips, she nods. "When I was at the site, I realized that… well, that life is about finding happiness despite the circumstances, because there's always going to be pain. And I think I've been hanging on too long to Claire. I'll always love her, but I think she would want me to be happy."

He reaches down and gently takes hold of her hand, threading his fingers through hers. "Stella, eight years ago, you were there when I needed you most. And you've been there ever since. You helped me through one of the most difficult times of my life. After Claire, I never thought I would find someone who made me as happy as she did. But then there was you."

Her eyes widen and slowly fill with tears as she sits up.

"You make me happy. You make me feel alive, and I haven't felt alive in eight long years." A tear slides down her cheek, and he gently wipes it away with the pad of his thumb. "She would want me to live."

Stella inhales deeply and blows it back out before reaching up with her free hand to place it on top of his. "I don't want to take her place, Mac."

"I know." He gently squeezes her hand. "I'll never forget her, and I know you won't either. But being with you…" his voice trails off, and he looks deep into those shining green pools, losing himself in her gaze.

Although the thought occurs to him that maybe he's finding himself there too.

He leans forward until he can feel her breath on his face. "I love you, Stella," he whispers.

She gasps audibly. It's the first time either has dared to say those words, but after eight long years, he's ready to say them again and again to her, and only her.

So he does, only louder this time and with more confidence. "I love you, Stel. I think I have for a while. And after today, I know I will for the rest of my life."

A single teardrop trails down her cheek, and suddenly she beams, a smile that's ten times brighter than the rising sun. She reaches for his face, gently touching the worry lines around his mouth, smoothing over his careworn brow, gracing the morning stubble on his cheek. His eyes flutter shut at the tender touch of her fingertips.

The bed dips and she shifts closer to him. He opens his eyes to meet hers, taking in the sparkle in those emerald irises. She's so close to him that he can smell her distinct scent of mangoes and coconut, can feel her breath on his skin.

"I love you too, Mac," she whispers.

To hear it from her lips makes time stand still and his heart stop. It reverberates in his ears, the sweet, sweet sound of her confession. And he realizes that the ache that had resided in his chest for eight years is gone. Vanished.

"You do?" he queries, still not quite sure if he heard her right.

She laughs, a musical sound, and her curls tumble over her shoulders as she nods vigorously. "I do. I love you."

A wide smile splits his face, the first smile this day has seen for eight long years. His heart feels like it's about to ricochet out of his chest, and it's the most welcome feeling he's had in a very long time. He reaches for her cheek, sliding his hand along the smooth skin into her silken curls. She meets him halfway, his arm winding around her waist to pull her closer to him as he kisses her slowly and surely.

Upon her throne far above the chaos and pain of earth, Eos, the goddess of the dawn, smiles. Slowly she turns to look at the shimmering specter of a young woman with light brown hair, big sapphire eyes, and a crooked smile. The young woman smiles at the radiant goddess before turning back to the man she once called hers and the woman who saved his life so many years ago. Though the young woman knows her love for him will never wane, she also he has discovered a different love that will last for the rest of time. Not better, just different. He's learned how to live with the help of the woman who knew them both.

And now, she's certain she can rest in peace.


End file.
